


Green and Red

by bladespark



Series: Bladespark's Genderfeel Stories [13]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Things Happen To Bad People, Horror, Other, Sexual Violence, Tags Contain Spoilers, Transphobia, Vagina Dentata
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:28:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladespark/pseuds/bladespark
Summary: A sexist idiot wanders a convention floor, acting as sexist idiots do.  Unfortunately for him there's also a monster on the loose, an ancient creature, kin of the sirens, long envious of human males and all their male features.  His inhuman abilities give his all-too-human jealousy quite a bite.
Series: Bladespark's Genderfeel Stories [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1648726
Kudos: 11





	Green and Red

The wolf whistle made me turn around, a familiar tension coiling in my belly. 

I knew the whistle was probably not aimed at me, not today, but that didn’t change the way I felt about men who did such things.

The convention floor was crowded, so I couldn’t immediately see the whistler, but the annoyed look on the face of a Poison Ivy cosplayer near me suggested the area to look for the culprit, and when the whistle was repeated I spotted him.

He was in costume too, a Joker costume that looked to be based on the Jared Leto portrayal. The man was pudgier than Leto, and missing the silver teeth, but I was still quite confident in my identification. Alone I might not have made any judgments of a Leto Joker cosplayer, but combined with the whistle I had certain suspicions.

Feeling that tensed spring in the pit of my belly wind itself just a little tighter, I began threading my way towards the man. The woman he’d whistled at had already given him a scoff and stalked off. I was just close enough to hear him say, “Bitch,” after her. Yep, he was definitely one of those people.

You know the type, I’m sure, I don’t have to explain them. They give the decent fans of villain characters a bad name. I’ve always liked a good movie monster, I find myself siding with the “bad guys” quite often—my own costume reflected that, certainly—but finding the fiction satisfying and wanting to be a monster are two different things. Decent people don’t want to be monsters.

I make no claim to be a decent person, myself, mind. I’m just a different flavor of monster.

Tailing the Joker through the convention wasn’t hard, he paused any time he saw any female skin on display, and I was treated to several more wolf whistles and some overheard commentary about “bitches” that was just delightful.

He wasn’t terribly observant, either. I’d followed him the length of the main hall, through the dealer’s room, and halfway down a side hall before he noticed I was there. I don’t think he’d noticed I was following him, either, he just spotted me making eye contact, and his gaze swept me up and down.

“Who are you supposed to be?”

“Mirror Universe Spock,” I said, lifting a hand to finger one pointed ear. The points in question were the wrong shape for a Vulcan, but they were close enough. 

I’d been very enamored of the original Star Trek when it first aired. People could be so wonderfully imaginative, and I liked that particular utopia better than most. It was one I could see myself living happily in. They’d find a way for somebody like me to belong, I was sure. Although I’d probably get away with a lot less in the Federation than I did in this world.

The Joker audibly snorted. “What, really? From Star Trek? You’d be better off being that black chick, what’s her name?”

I lifted one eyebrow, Spock style, at that. I was as lily white as was possible, being very much averse to sunlight. “I would make a very poor Uhura, given I’m neither black, nor a ‘chick’,” I replied.

“Oh come on, that fake beard is obviously painted on. You’re not fooling anyone, girl.” That was delivered with a sneer. I felt the coil in my stomach tighten another notch. He was more than proving to be what I’d thought he was on first sight.

“I happen to identify as transmasculine,” I said, with calm firmness. I could have phrased that in any number of ways, but I was poking the bear now. I knew he was a bear, but exactly how bad was he? No gentle panda, but perhaps he might be a milder black bear and not a murderous grizzly.

“I happen to identify as…” He spoke in a squeaky voice, much higher than my own naturally low alto, and actually made a talking hand gesture. I found both my eyebrows going up at that. I’d hit the bigoted jackpot, apparently. That coil of anticipation tightened further. I could hardly believe my luck. I hadn’t even been hunting, I was just here to attend some panels and meet a few long-distance friends. “Bullshit,” the Joker continued. “You’re just a little girl with penis envy. Admit it, you want some cock. I bet a good dicking would fix you right up. Or do you ‘identify’ as a lesbian, too?”

“A man can hardly be a lesbian,” I said mildly, somehow managing to not roll my eyes.

“A man has a penis, sweetheart. You’re no man. But you can have some of this if you want.” He did a hip-thrust at me.

That was too much, and I let the eye-roll loose. “No thanks,” I said, and turned away from him. I heard another “bitch”, very much expected, from behind me. 

As I walked away, though, I used one of my small, special gifts to assure I wouldn’t be leaving him alone forever. Said gifts had nothing to do with my gender identity; that was a relatively recent thing. I’d always felt some very complicated things about sex and gender, but long before I’d finally pinned “transmasculine” on those feelings, I’d had other differences from the people around me. Ones that were in some ways deeper, more profound.

One of those allowed me to “mark” the bigoted Joker. It was a little beacon, visible only to me, that could lead me to him, no matter the distance between us. It would fade after a few days, but that should be more than long enough for my purposes.

Then I put him out of my mind and went about my day, enjoying the convention’s many offerings. I attended two panels, gave the dealer’s room a thorough browse—buying a very nice Star Trek TOS communicator pin—and generally people-watched and enjoyed myself.

Eventually all but the scattering of adult-themed late night panels had wrapped up. There was music calling from a dance party, and I knew room parties would also be rocking all over the hotel. I’d originally intended to visit one of those, and perhaps fish for predators there, but I’d already found one, and his drooling misogyny and blatant transphobia were as good as anything I’d be likely to stumble on at a party.

I stood in the nearly empty hall and closed my eyes, feeling for the mark I’d left on Mister Joker earlier. I smiled to find it still in place. The tug was upward and toward the main tower of the hotel, as I’d expected. He wasn’t out and about, he was in his room, or perhaps at one of the room parties there. I hoped for the former. I wanted to catch him alone.

I took the elevator up until I was level with the faint pull, then disembarked on the eighth floor. The pull drew me swiftly to a particular door. I paused a moment and leaned against it, eyes closed in concentration. I could sense only one source of lifeforce within. If the Joker shared this room with another, that other was very ill, or very deeply asleep, or both.

Good enough. I lifted my hand and knocked, feeling that inner tension wound now to an almost unbearable tightness. I needed what I hoped was coming with something that began to be close to desperation, now that it was within my sights. I would survive without it, but oh how I wanted it.

The door opened, and the Joker stood there, though he’d washed his makeup off. He looked ordinary enough without it. Just some guy; decent chin, nice cheekbones, brown eyes, brown hair still tinted green, clean-shaven. Okay to look at, nothing remarkable, nothing repulsive. Figure slightly chubby, but not massively obese. Somebody I could have found attractive, if it weren’t for the rot within. And his life-force… I let myself lick my lips as he gaped at me. He was bursting with youthful vigor, he couldn’t be more than thirty at most, and was definitely not sick, definitely didn’t smoke, drink, or do drugs to excess.

Perfect.

“What do you want?”

“You were right,” I said.

“Huh?”

“About wanting cock. About wanting your cock. I do, okay? I’m probably just kinda drunk,” I wasn’t, but I was giving him a chance to be decent about something and turn me down, “but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His eyes went wide, and I could actually see his pupils dilating. I could also just about smell the sudden wave of lust from him.

“You want the D, huh?” He grinned, a leering confidence instantly replacing his confusion.

I managed to not roll my eyes again. I found a lot of modern slang to be marvelous. “Yeet” was both utilitarian and highly amusing, while “mood” was one of the most efficient uses of language I could think of. But “The D” was neither charming nor efficient, there were already plenty of similarly short methods of referring to one’s cock. “Yeah.” I focused my attention back to what I needed, and that need came through well enough to pass for true agreement.

“Come on in, then,” he said, swinging the hotel room door open wider and stepping aside.

I entered, finding the room already a mess, though he couldn’t have been more than one night in it so far. At least it didn’t stink.

He shut the door, and I moved up close to him, giving a little hip wiggle as I did. He made a face of distaste, though. “Can you, like, wash your face? I can’t do anything with that stupid fake beard.”

Oh good god. How many massive eye-rolls was I going to have to suppress? He’d made it clear he saw me as a woman no matter what I did or said, but apparently even the tiniest hint of masculinity was still too much for him. “Sure,” I said, managing to smile at him somehow, and headed for the bathroom. A few minutes with the miniature bar of soap and the painted-on goatee was removed. I was still wearing the rest of the Mirror Spock costume, and my ears were still pointed, but apparently that was fine, for no sooner had I emerged than he pounced on me and started practically slobbering all over me.

I couldn’t bring myself to be enthusiastic about his sad attempt to kiss passionately, but I didn’t resist it. I just stood there and let him kiss me. When his hands started fumbling at the sash that held my costume tunic on, I let him remove that too, and pull the tunic open to slide his hands over my chest. I was flat enough that I hadn’t bothered with a binder, nor a bra today either, just a thin, tight undershirt. He groped at what little cleavage I had, his fingers finding my nipples through the fabric. They weren’t hard, I was neither chilled nor turned on, but I will admit I felt a different kind of arousal. I was tense, waiting eagerly for the opportunity that was now nearly inevitable. He’d passed up every chance to prove himself a decent person, every chance to escape.

It still would be up to him to make the final move, but I had no doubt that he would.

Indeed a moment later he was pushing me onto the bed, hands giving up on my sorry excuse for breasts and going to the button and zipper of my pants. Just to avoid the awkwardness I kicked off my boots and helped him get the black trousers off of me. I wore boxers under those, which he pulled down with near-frantic eagerness. I wondered how long it had been since he’d last had sex. I wondered if the last time had been with somebody as unenthusiastic about it as I was. I didn’t want to fuck him. Although I hadn’t been lying, exactly, about wanting his dick.

He scrambled over me, undoing his pants, yanking them carelessly down. His cock sprang up, already hard and desperate. I licked my lips again as I took in the look of it. It was uncut and just the long side of average. How nice. I spread my legs for him, and even reached down to guide him when he had some trouble with the angle. My lips were parted, moist, ready for him.

I found myself breathing hard, possibly as desperately eager as he was. I’d had sex only days ago, but this I hadn’t done in far, far too long, and I could hardly wait.

God in heaven, I was horrible. Far worse than any fictional monster.

I didn’t care. In fact I grinned, baring my teeth at him. He wouldn’t understand why, and it was too late, anyway, he was already inside me.

He pushed in deep, all the way to the hilt, and I grabbed his hips, pulling him down as hard as I possibly could, wanting every single millimeter of that nice, long cock.

Then I invoked the same unnatural energy I had when putting my mark on him, tensed in a very particular way, and clamped the other teeth, the ones that weren’t bared in a horrible grin, down on him hard.

He screamed and instinctively pulled back, but my teeth were sunk in to his cock, and he’d barely begun the motion when his scream hit a higher pitch and he stopped. I grinned even more broadly. I shouldn’t like this part. I shouldn’t be happy to hear his screams. I shouldn’t feel satisfied or vindicated.

I shouldn’t, but I did. I drank in the sound of him, and I drank in something else, too. His blood, where he was bleeding all over my lower teeth, vanished, absorbed into me. I savored the ethereal taste of it, the richness of blood and lifeforce nearly tangible on my tongue. He kept screaming, staring helplessly down at me, and his skin began to dry and wrinkle. I knew he could see it, could see his hands growing older as they clawed futilely at my chest.

There was nothing he could do to stop it.

His clawing grew weaker, and his screams became hoarse, wheezing, as if he was having trouble drawing enough breath for them. His skin dried and wrinkled further, until he looked a man of advanced old age rather than no more than thirty or so.

The screams finally ceased.

I bit down hard, with those lower teeth, and his now-lifeless body fell away from me to lie on the bed, a dry husk, already on the verge of crumbling. With all its lifeforce sucked from it, it would be dust by morning.

I sat up and sighed, tipping back my head and reveling in the feeling of his vitality flowing through me.

Climbing off of the bed, I directed that vitality, centering it in my navel and then pushing it down between my legs, down to where that which I’d bitten off still rested within me. It was more pleasant, held thus of my own will, than it had seemed when he’d thrust it within. But I wasn’t done with it yet. Energy and power flowed over it, over me, changing both just enough. I let the power work, directing it as I had many times before, keeping my eyes closed while I focused on my task.

Finally it was complete. I let the rest of the power disperse into my body, where it blended with my own life-force, sustaining it, adding that many more years to my already centuries-long span. I might age eventually, if I never did this, but I didn’t know, for I’d never gone more than a few decades between such feedings.

I opened my eyes and looked down. Long life was only a side benefit. What I saw now was the true reason why I’d done it. Emerging from the tuft of dark, curly hair between my legs was a cock, uncut and on the long side of average, just as it had been before I’d stolen it.

There were no balls with it, I had no interest in fathering children, but anyone I allowed close enough to wonder at that would be someone I trusted, so I had no worries on that account.

Instead I smiled happily. I wasn’t ashamed of the reasons why I did this. I was ashamed, a little, of not resisting those reasons. I was ashamed to be a murderous monster. But I was not at all ashamed to be a monster born in woman’s likeness, who felt I ought to be a man, and who could steal and wear another man’s cock.

I’d wear this one until the life force I’d taken was no longer enough to sustain the stolen member and it dropped from me. Then, of course, I would need to seek another. Fortunately for me, though unfortunately for the state of the world, I had no shortage of what I considered legitimate prey.

Penis envy indeed. Color me green with it, and red with spilled blood. Call me a monster, for I am. Say I’m not a man if you must, for I’m not human, so it’s true I’m not.

Just never call me a woman, for that’s the one thing, of all things, that I am not.

**Author's Note:**

> This bit of ridiculous horror began in a chat room, where the topic of vagina dentata came up, and somebody said to me, that if I had one, it would be a "mangina dentata". I found this both amusing and interesting, and filed away the notion of a transmasculine monster who acts out on his penis envy in a rather grotesque way in my ideas file. 
> 
> When getting my bingo card for the Transgender Bingo Challenge, I got "helplessly watching" as a prompt, and thought first that the *last* thing I wanted was to write a story about something truly awful happening to a helpless transgender character. A bit too real, that. But then I remembered the mangina dentata monster, and thought "but what if the transgender character happens to somebody else instead?" And this story was born.
> 
> If you'd like to see me talk about writing, my works in progress, other creative endeavors, and my life in general, check out [my Dreamwidth blog](https://bladespark.dreamwidth.org/) or my [twitter](https://twitter.com/bladespark).


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